4 U, Prince

“Sometimes I wish life was never ending / and all good things, they say, never last” [Sometimes it Snows in April]

21.04.16

10pm

Hearing the news this evening was like a funeral at dawn – eerie and premature. I took a long, meandering route to the bus stop under dark skies, gazing vacantly into the eyes of passers by, looking for some faint acknowledgement of the bombshell that had just landed.

Some solemn faces were hunched over their phones, others fatigued and gazing vacantly into the distance. Had they heard? The loss of another alien legend, only three months before, had done little to prepare us for the fact that the fragility of human life inevitably seals our fate. Even the extraordinary among us.

My initial reaction was one of confusion. Just before my phone ran out of power I texted my friend to ask whether he would be joining me at an exhibition. He simply replied, “PRINCE.” Had he taken up his Prince2 project management course again, I thought?

Then jealousy swiftly kicked in. Had he caught wind of another secret gig by the Purple One, the same flu-ridden figure who had been rushed to hospital only days before? No, such a speedy recovery seemed ridiculous. 

Then I thought, “But, it’s Prince,” echoing the words of director Kevin Smith as he recounted a bizarre attempt to make a documentary at Paisley Park. Anything is possible.

The world collectively breathed a sigh of relief and moved on to the next hashtag’ed talking point.

Then … disbelief.

Growing up in the Eighties you fell into one of two camps. Prince or Michael Jackson. Sure, you might love both – pop superstars with catchy songs, slick moves and soul-deep deliveries. Singular talents and trailblazing heroes for their people. But I chose a side. To this day, I’m not sure why.

Perhaps it was because Jackson was more ubiquitous on TV and in the press, simultaneously their darling and punchline. The conservative choice for a conservative kid like me. Prince was an enigma, in comparison – aloof, androgynous, shape-shifting, x-rated.

Undoubtedly, some perceived him as being blacker and therefore more authentic but Prince maintained he grew up in "a black and white world, rich and poor, night and day". He strived to make all kinds of music and be judged for the quality of his work and not the colour of his skin. 

The Face put him on their cover in September 1984, proclaiming him “The Cool Ruler” and asking, “Can Prince take Michael Jackson’s crown?”

They never did square off in that ‘Bad’ video as MJ intended. In Prince’s words, “The first line of that song is ‘Your butt is mine.’ Now who’s gonna sing that to who? Cos you’re sure not gonna sing it to me. And I sure ain’t singing it to you. So right there, we got a problem.”

Seeing this clip from 1983 for the first time was the calling. A priceless artifact dug up long before the dawn of YouTube. I watched in amazement as three legends met in the arena for one night only. A moment in time that would never be repeated. Prince managed to squeeze a concert’s worth of drama into two minutes on stage … and off! Who is this guy? I thought. I mean, really?

It was only after I passed into adulthood and my knowledge of the roots of black music began to grow that I came to truly appreciate the full extent of his abilities. From there, I became more fascinated by lesser-known aspects of the man. There was that legendary interview with Electrifying Mojo in Detroit (brilliantly sampled by Moodymann), the fact that he also wrote irresistible pop oddities such as ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ and The Bangles’ ‘Manic Monday’, his love of Joni Mitchell and Cocteau Twins, his jams with Miles Davis at Paisley Park, the influence of those drum machines and freaky synths on legions of dance producers, and the roots of the Minneapolis sound he helped to establish.

There was also a warmer and more down-to-earth side that the public rarely saw: his qualities as a loyal and supportive friend to the likes of Arsenio Hall, Mariah Carey and Toni Braxton, for instance. “An amazing, rounded human being” as Fox 9 reporter and Paisley Park regular Iris Perez described him. In secret, he was a humanitarian who supported numerous projects in areas such as Oakland and Chicago. 

And let’s not forget his wicked sense of humour… Prince on Sesame Street, anyone? Or Jimmy Fallon’s ping-pong story?

To think, at 5ft 2” he was a baller. Literally. Gets me every time.

Apparently a photo of the day Prince whooped Charlie Murphy on the b-ball court. This story was later sent up hilariously in a Chapelle Show skit  

He had more comedy in one look than most stand-ups have in their whole career.

via GIPHY

via GIPHY

Listening to the Little Richard special on BBC6Music a fortnight ago, the flamboyant singer was quick to recognise the debt Prince owed to him, as well as Jimi Hendrix, James Brown, Stevie Wonder and Sly Stone. A touch of Charlie Chaplin too, according to Miles Davis. Such was his magnetism and gift for theatricality.

Here was a guy who assimilated the best of each artist, shook them up and made something far greater than the sum of its parts. As the years passed, Prince would himself become the inspiration and mentor, endorsing the careers of new artists such as King, Esperanza Spalding, Janelle Monae and Lianne La Havas as well as his last band 3rd Eye Girl.

Although he was notorious for being a harsh taskmaster, souring relationships with numerous band members and protégés such as The Time, he could also be a generous collaborator and guide for those fortunate enough to be allowed into his domain. Many of them were women looking for a break. “I am a giver by nature, I like people,” he claimed while in conversation with Will Hodgkinson for Mojo magazine in 2014. “But I test people in many ways.” For more on the creative process and a revolving door of supporting players, check Matt Thorne's book.

Signed to Warner Brothers in 1978, Prince instantly gained a cult following with his first three albums For You, Prince and Dirty Mind, fusing classic r’n’b and lithe funk with rock and new wave. Along the way, he courted controversy with explicit tracks such as ‘Head’ and honed his outrageous stagecraft to the point of orgasmic release – till the crowd was “burnin’ up”.

But it was Purple Rain that sent him stratospheric, a melodramatic funk opera about a young kid trying to make it in urban America, steeped in gospel and blues – a black experience electrified by the technology of the day.

Beyond the carnal, there was something almost spiritual at play. Prince never truly got his props as a lyricist but he could certainly write a poignant line or two. How about, “The beautiful ones, they hurt you every time”? Or “If I was ur girlfriend, would you let me dress you? I mean help you pick out your clothes before we go out? Not that you're helpless, but sometime, sometime, those are the things that being in love's about.”

In a BBC documentary about Prince’s Eighties’ period, Rolling Stone’s Anthony DeCurtis perfectly expresses the catharsis of the epic title track. For many, Prince's masterpiece… “The level of emotional nakedness and honesty is often overlooked. That sense of injuring someone and almost wishing you weren’t doing it, as you’re doing it. This longing for a place, this purple rain that could just wash all that away somehow and allow you to have that connection without all the pain. It’s deep.

“I remember when I was going through a divorce, I listened to that song and just started crying. In a very indirect but profound way he gets at those emotions of what went wrong. There’s no way I can make it better, I may even be at fault but can't something save us from this? Let’s go to another world, let’s get to a place where we can get beyond this. That’s what ‘Purple Rain’ is about.”

I have this recurring dream, a fantasy perhaps, of dancing in front of the Pyramid Stage as the heavens open … and the sky turns purple. My one entry to Glastonbury by the grace of the ticket gods. It felt like an inevitability. A dream it shall remain.

The breadth of creativity on Sign O the Times still astounds me. It’s probably my favourite album of his, although Parade has its moments as this Pop Matters anniversary feature attests. From the rap social commentary of the opener to the brooding, gender-bending devotion of ‘If I Was Ur Girlfriend’ with that Linn LM-1 heartbeat, to the giddy sweetness of ‘Starfish & Coffee’, all-time favourite love song ‘Adore’ and the ultimate New Year’s party starter ‘It’s Gonna Be A Beautiful Night’.

But that’s the thing about Prince – scores of fans have their favourite album, their go-to track, even those who didn't quite “get him”. He had the keys to your soul. Even if you didn’t know it.

He carried a mystique. This afternoon I watched a fascinating discussion about the legacy of David Bowie, featuring photographer Kevin Cummins, producer Ken Scott and GQ editor Dylan Jones. Cummins brought the house down with his comment that he’d never want to see David “Instagramming his f-ing breakfast”, and preferred to always assume that he lived on a spaceship and ate moon dust each morning. It was a poignant lament about the lack of mystery and mythology in music today.

Although he eventually did join Instagram, Prince always kept you guessing. The wicked flirt, the compulsive tease. The closer you felt you got to him, the further away he pulled. Here was one artist who couldn’t be figured out, followed and ignored.

Even in his later years, when the star mellowed, found god and stopped doing the splits, he continued to experiment on stage, rarely playing the same tune in the same way. With limitless talent and hits like his, why would you? The One Night Alone and 3121 tours in particular helped to rekindle people's adulation while also introducing the artist to a new generation of fans. (A show-stealing medley with Beyonce at the 2004 Grammys didn't hurt either.)

Prince was also a leader in the fight for artistic freedom, taking control of his intellectual property and being the first major artist to sell albums, his preferred canvas, through the web. He saw the potential for the internet to be a “direct line” to his “friends” long before others.

I think back to spring of 2014 and those guerrilla gigs he blessed us with in London. A refreshingly mischievous way of simultaneously treating and torturing fans. Many of those in attendance weren’t necessarily part of the Purple Army, fanatics willing to entertain every whim and indulgence, the kind you’d hear on overblown sets such as Emancipation, The Crystal Ball and The Rainbow Children. But seeing him was something you simply had to do before you died. Or before he died.

It’s a bittersweet memory as I remember waiting outside Ronnie Scott’s for seven hours, slowly creeping up to the door and hearing the faint strains of classics as revellers kept each others’ spirits up beneath a projected image of the main man.

I finally reached the entrance round midnight only to be told that no more punters would be let in. To make matters worse, staff refused to open the door even a few inches to make us feel part of the ceremony. Suddenly, there came a decree from on high, as if from the Royal Badness himself: “Party where you are.”

We did.

At least I managed to catch him at the O2 during his 21-night 20TEN tour, a blistering trawl through his hits. But it was the after-hours afterparty that I really craved. Prince going way out there – no format, no limits.

His influence on music and popular culture is undeniable. You can hear him in D’Angelo and Pharrell, you can see him in Miguel.

Hell, you can feel him in the colour purple. He claimed his own colour. Can you believe that?

As Robin Givhan describes in her brilliant piece for the Washington Post, Prince made purple "complicated, sexy and mysterious". She continues: "The clothes were his. His choice. His style. Uniquely him. He did not appear to be searching for himself in fashion." 

There will be an outpouring of tributes over the next few weeks, some impressive in their recollection of key moments and astute in their observations about his influence on music. Others will be heartfelt testimonials, sharing experiences of records and performances as true rites of passage. And I have no problem with the latter.

In a world that’s becoming increasingly cynical, where compassion, humanity and emotional honesty are exceptions rather than the norm, I think it’s beautiful that the music changed lives, brought strangers together and made them feel. If artists can give others the confidence to stand out, even better. Let’s not have a repeat of Bowie's “grief police”.

It is impossible to make sense of tragedies like this. The last tribute to a fallen idol I wrote was James Brown on Christmas Day 2006. How apt that this is for one of his children. But life should be filled with more hellos than goodbyes. I expected Prince to be composing for an orchestra into his sixties or making oddball jazz music after that. But alas, it wasn’t to be. We can now only wonder where he might have gone next.

A wise man once said: "It's time we all reach out for something new. That means you too." So what now? How many young artists can ride the waves of change and stay the course like him through sheer dedication and application? This YouTube comment perfectly encapsulated the gaping hole Prince and a handful of others have left.

Who will be our icons in 20, 30, 40 years’ time? Who will carry the torch? What will they stand for and how will they change our lives? With a song, an experience, an encounter. Hopefully, this moment will be an awakening, a new beginning for the next generation. All that music to inspire. And if the vault is opened, well… 

Eccentric? All the way. Cryptic? U bet. A savvy puppeteer of the media? No doubt. But to his credit he was not in the least bit interested in the cult of celebrity. Instead, Prince was utterly consumed by the craft, achieving complete mastery of studio, stage, audience and image. In turn, we submitted. 

As Nextdraft editor Dave Pell put it so bleakly in his mailout today: “Think of all the instruments that make up a band. One of the greatest players of each of those instruments died today. And he was one guy.”

For me, Prince will always be his own energy. His own universe. The ultimate showman, a liberator of body and mind and the greatest musician the world has ever seen.

Always on the one.

With a cheeky smile. 

For now, that is all there is to say. Off to dream of heaven. I know he’s there among friends.

Watch. Listen. Cherish. Remember.

Parade Tour live in Detroit on Prince's birthday (1986)

Electric Intercourse (live), 1983

‘Bambi’ live on Jimmy Fallon (2013)

Virtual insanity?

Last week I attended a QnA with BBC broadcaster Nick Garnett, who discussed his recent experiments in mobile journalism. Over the past 12 months Nick has reported from every major news scene – Tunisia, Paris, Calais, Nepal – often using nothing more than his smartphone, a few apps and accessories. When asked to speculate on the future he was very enthusiastic about virtual reality. Imagine a world of more immersive storytelling, he said, where broadcasters could mic up different people and collect several points of view on location. 

To illustrate his point Garnett mentioned Vrse, a platform and app co-founded by director Chris Milk and former Google Data Arts lead Aaron Koblin. Vrse has been a pioneer in this field tackling big news stories such as immigration, ebola and the conflict in Syria, as well as producing arts feature collaborations with the New York Times.

War has driven 30 million children from their homes. These are the stories of three of them

In Gaza, foundations are built, destroyed, and built again. This virtual reality experience follows the struggle and strength of a mother coping with the death of her two children

Milk famously coined the phrase “The Empathy Machine” to describe the key benefit of this 360-degree technology. He is so convinced by the power of the medium that he envisages a day where the user becomes a character in their own story, effectively cutting out the middle man in journalism. Critics question how connected spectators can really be, equating the experience to a dream or “a feeling of dislocation”. 

Nevertheless excitement is spreading within several sectors, from gaming, education, tourism and charity to mobile technology and even healthcare. That’s right, there are also altruistic benefits to virtual reality, not least making the existing world more accessible to the elderly according to the Wall Street Journal. A basic practical benefit of this technology, says Ben Kuchera at Polygon, is that virtual reality destroys the idea of an arbitrary screen.” He explains: “It's that ability to display whatever I want, in whatever size, shape and placement I prefer, that has me the most excited about virtual reality.”

But let’s focus on journalism for a moment. I’m not convinced. Yet. Having walked through a few Vrse films I find the interface to be a barrier, or burden, rather than a portal to a story. A great reporter, with the aid of a good production team, can transport us to the scene of the crime or incident and give invaluable context. They make meaning, not us. As a viewer I feel more receptive when I surrender control. Brian Eno has spoken quite eloquently about this phenomenon in the context of music. Digital artist Jonathan Harris, whose work I have covered before, tweeted recently: 

The human body is the ultimate virtual reality machine. Why bother with anything else?

— Jonathan Harris (@jjhnumber27) March 18, 2016

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Empathy ultimately comes from within and a 360-degree view of a war zone isn’t likely to change that. A bigger picture doesn’t equal the full picture. Besides, as one person commenting on this TED talk remarked: “Is the generation of empathy the purpose of news?”  

The cynic in me feels this is a ploy to generate buzz around a new technology – see 3D. The promise of deeper engagement obviously has brands and marketers salivating. Make up your own mind, though. We are well past the one-size-fits-all news distribution model so if virtual reality brings you closer to the truth then best find a headset that's comfortable. You may be wearing it for a while.

Monster monologues

I occasionally volunteer at the Ministry of Stories, a creative writing centre for kids in Hoxton. Over the past few weeks pupils at Mossbourne Community Academy have been thinking about what makes a monster and how that is determined by our expectations and experiences of literature, film and TV. What are each monster's likes, dislikes, hopes and fears? How would you describe their personality? The end goal of this project is to produce a series of short filmed monologues, written by the kids and performed by trained actors. 

We have looked at classic examples: the werewolf, the vampire, the zombie, the Siren, Medusa… We have also watched clips from Monty Python and Monsters Inc, among others, to demonstrate how funny it can be to subvert the traits of these monsters. To add an element of surprise.  

The kids are eager to put pen to paper and one exercise that caught their imagination was writing a letter to agony aunt and full-time banshee Imelda Monstrozer. It was a great way to get into character and put into practice some of the ideas we had discussed. Ministry mentors try to be quite hands off during these sessions unless the pupil is struggling or looking confused. So instead of waiting anxiously to be wowed I decided to have a go myself for five minutes. Obviously the kids will do much better.

Dear Imelda,

I am so bored of necking blood all night and sleeping all day. Surely there's more to life than this? What about hitting the beach or going on holiday with my mates? Oh wait… I don't have any mates. Not real ones, anyway. They're all scared that I'm gonna suck the life out of them. Either that or they only want to know me for what I can give them. Killer cocktails, coffin tips, eternal life… What's the answer?

They say variety is the spice of life. I'd like to know what avocado and poached eggs on toast taste like. Crispy aubergine, Japanese style. Salt-baked beetroot with cobnuts and damson, why not? Perhaps there's a monster resort or health farm I could go to? Get a little colour back in my skin, you know. A makeover. A new wardrobe while I'm at it. Find the new me. I know that sounds deep but I'm not your average bloodthirsty creature with a one-track mind. I'm meant for greater things.

Yours everlastingly, 

Vinny Vampire

Incidentally, the Ministry of Stories is looking for filmmakers to shoot these monologues. If you can help please get in touch here.

Objects of affection

Words are wonderful, aren't they. The way they combine and conspire to make meaning and transport us to other worlds. But objects can also tell a story. I am sitting in my makeshift office at home as I type this. All around me I see mementos and curios that bear great significance. There's the embroidered shawl that my mum used to wrap herself in when she sat down in front of the TV after a hard day's work. There is the stripy, buffalo-shaped candle I trekked five hours to collect from Swazi Candles while on my gap year, shaped through time. And how could I forget the rain-soaked greetings card with Ian Botham on the front, filled with the smudged signatures of sporting giants such as Courtney Walsh and Allan Donald? That charity match in Hove was a washout but what a memorable day nonetheless.

However, objects are more than just milestones or markers. They are portals. When combined in a particular arrangement or sequence they can create their own narrative. Take Nobel Prize-winning author Orhan Pamuk's Museum of Innocence exhibition at Somerset House, for example – a collection of vitrines, manuscript extracts and filmed strolls around Istanbul at night (through the "disembodied eye" of Grant Gee). The museum and accompanying novel "tell the story of engaged wealthy socialite Kemal Bey’s obsessive love for Füsun, his twice removed cousin and a beautiful shopgirl."

Each of the 13 cabinets (selected from 83 in the original museum in Istanbul) contains everyday personal items owned by the couple and marks a particular point in their relationship or chapter in the novel. Kemel, we are told, visits this makeshift museum for nine years after the end of the relationship, hoarding "the refuse of an affair" as Jason Solomons puts it. You can't help but wonder at the jewel-like cologne bottles, the nibbled at ice cream cone, ornate crockery, keys, cigarette card images of actors and footballers, family photos… An evocative bric-a-brac sourced from flee markets and friends of Pamuk. Each vitrine is like an immaculately conceived movie set. It's fascinating how each suggests a place and time, how inanimate objects instantly give life to our memories. In fact, Pamuk explains that Kemel begins to collect these fragments of Füsun as soon as he realises the relationship is doomed.

There is also a clever video installation showing the hand of chain-smoking Füsun as she repeatedly flicks ash. Smoke is a recurring motif of memory and this grainy black and white loop acts as a companion piece to a glass case containing 4,213 lipstick-smeared butts collected by lovelorn Kemel. 

You might be tempted to think that the museum is an installation inspired by Pamuk's novel. In actual fact, they are both part of the same dream, conceived back in the Nineties. “I wrote the book as I collected these objects and made the museum thinking of the novel,” he explained at the opening. “And [I] wrote the novel thinking of the museum.” 

This is one of my favourite exhibitions of the past few months because it stirs the imagination so powerfully. It makes you believe. Pamuk is quoted as saying that "real museums are where time is transformed into space." And that's true. But it's the serendipity and chance of the process that offers the most magic. The following quote about his vitrine sketches illustrates that point beautifully: 

"After years of collecting objects, of visualising and sketching cabinet layouts as if I were writing theatrical stage directions, we arranged cups of tea, Kutahya porcelain ashtrays and Füsun's hairclips inside the boxes through trail and error. Looking at the photographs we took during that process, I realised I was doing what the landscape painters I so admired did: looking for an accidental beauty in the convergence of trees, electrical cables and pylons, ships, clouds, objects and people. The greatest happiness is where the eye discovers beauty where neither the mind conceived nor the hand intended."

The Museum of Innocence is open in the Courtyard Rooms of the south wing at Somerset House until 9 April. Also, don't miss these films showcasing other visions of Istanbul.

The harsh reality of hidden homelessness

In a recent article on FastCo Create, Andrew Jarecki, who won a Emmy for documentary series The Jinx, presented his new journal app KnowMe. In the interview he argues that people have “a basic human need to tell their story.” He goes on stress that this is particularly true of everyday folk and not just writers or filmmakers. I’ve often said that real life is the most compelling drama and the runaway success of series such as Serial, a podcast no less, confirms that. Now imagine if that story is a deeply personal one that puts a human face on a very controversial, topical issue. That’s exactly what Daisy-May Hudson did when she picked up a camera and started to film her younger sister and mother after hearing that they would have to leave their rented home.

In Daisy’s words, the act of documenting became her coping mechanism. A means of wrestling back control in a frustrating and often hopeless situation. She was in the whirl of her final year studying drama and english at Manchester University when she heard the news and rushed back to be with her family. Their home for 13 years was suddenly put up for sale by owners Tesco and the family were forced to declare themselves homeless because they couldn't afford alternative local accommodation. So began a lengthy period of correspondence with the council in Epping while they moved the Hudsons from hostel to halfway house, often with questionable consideration of suitability in terms of location and condition.

Daisy filmed more than 250 hours of footage, barely featuring herself and instead choosing to focus on her lead characters – one devoted yet ashamed, the other confused and fragile. Daisy’s sister Bronte actually chose to hide the truth from her friends at school; she is an emotional yo-yo on screen, as you would expect being a teenager. But her mischievous and girly moments – from beaming at the thought of a 99% cocoa chocolate bar to singing Beyonce (badly) in the bath – do provide much needed levity.

Bronte, director Daisy-May Hudson's younger sister

The resulting documentary, Half Way, which I saw the other night, does a fantastic job of exploring the taboo nature of homelessness and confronting our attitudes to this problem. Credit must go to the editor Vera Simmonds for her judicious cuts and deft pacing while James Smith’s music heightens the mood when needed, without descending into melodrama. At times, it’s an uncomfortable watch. For instance, not much happens … and that’s the problem. The family are stuck in limbo, admittedly not on the streets but undeniably constrained, sharing a kitchen and bathroom with strangers for a year, living out of boxes. We see them struggling to put on a brave face, trying to go easy on one another. You feel the moments of despair with the family, not least when their legitimate objections are misconstrued as the family making themselves “intentionally homeless”. And they aren’t the only ones who stand accused.

For the Hudsons, the experience has certainly left its mark, as Daisy explained to Huck magazine: “I only cried once in the whole year we were in the hostel. I felt like if I showed I was upset, my mum would break. In some ways, our ending was a happy one. When we finally got our home, my mum had to go through a process of de-institutionalisation, re-learning how to make somewhere feel like a home, and not to leave little piles of things in boxes everywhere. Like my mum says, ‘We’re still getting through it.”’

The housing crisis is never far from the front pages or the evening news but the problem is more nuanced than many of us appreciate. That scruffy man on the street begging for a few pennies is only one manifestation. Gentrification, often signified by the arrival of that plush new café in a traditionally working class area, is too easy a target for pointing fingers.

In the Q & A after the screening at 71a London, Daisy, who has become a de facto spokesperson for ‘hidden homelessness’, suggested a raft of solutions – from rent caps to a ban on right to buy and foreign buyers gobbling up properties and leaving them vacant. This is fast becoming the defining issue of modern times in Britain: the right to a safe, clean home and how to facilitate peaceful co-existence in cities amid an impending class war.

Daisy (left): "[Our society] has a culture of blaming the individual and not the archaic, profit-reaping system that allows things like this to happen. This is evident in the ‘scrounge’ narrative that plays out in the media and in politician’s speeches”

Last year Shelter reported that around 100,000 children were going to be homeless at Christmas. More than 1.8 million households are waiting for social housing in England, an increase of 81% since 1997. UK house prices are rising three times faster than average wages according to the Office of National Statistics. If the Government could determine what is affordable based on a family’s income rather than the market rate, and commit units to the rental sector, perhaps we might see some progress. As it is, they are building less than half the number of homes they should be. Planning permission is not the issue.

The Housing Bill, if passed, will make matters even worse, arguably heralding the end of council housing (a “historic moment” but not in the sense that MP Brandon Lewis intended). The Government proposes to replace the stability and sense of community offered by permanent council tenancies with temporary arrangements, reviewed every three to five years. Secondly, households earning more than £30,000 each year (£40,000 in London) will be hit with a pay to stay tax on the difference between their social rent and the market rate. That’s ample encouragement to work less.

There's more. Councils will be forced to sell their “high value” homes as soon as they become vacant but, as Shelter’s John Bibby notes, there is no guarantee in the bill that replacement units will be built. As for starter homes, which Living Wage earner in Generation Buy will be able to afford a £450,000 home (£250,000 outside London) even with a first-time buyer discount of 20%? If you oppose the bill, there is a march taking place on Saturday 30 January from midday at the Imperial War Museum.

Daisy, who now works as a filmmaker producer at Vice and was recently named a BAFTA Breakthrough Brit, hopes to show the documentary to as many people as possible, especially politicians in the House of Commons. She can't understand why people aren’t up in arms about this issue – defeatism perhaps – and urges everyone to hound their local MP and take to the streets. Did I mention that there is a march happening?

Half Way is her first feature-length documentary and it’s a great achievement for someone so young. There is a spirit of defiance and solidarity running through every frame. It’s an honest reflection of the times we live in and could kickstart a revolution if Daisy has anything to do with it.

More information on Half Way here. Please get in touch with the team if you wish to organise screenings or can help with distribution. For regular updates on progress, check their Twitter page.